Laces
by Catherine Wheels
Summary: Italy wants to be conquered, and Germany needs to make something, anything, right.


_A/N: Um... OOC Italy. Whatever. I like the idea of him being sexual. By the way, the Italians did, in fact (sort of) vigilante justice style murder Mussolini. So that inspired this._

_I like Germany and Italy. As much as it's so obvious and common._

* * *

Germany had grown used to blood, or at least the sight of it. The taste still burned his tongue and the scent still made him pause, but he was used to seeing it. Buckets of it, these days. But he was never used to seeing it on Italy.

"You want me to do what?"

"Be my boss," Italy repeated, wiping his face with his stained white glove and beaming. "I didn't like my old boss."

"Italy…" Germany wandered to his sofa and slumped down, shaking his head. "I can't take care of myself right now, much less you. They're…" tears welled to his eyes as they did more often these days. "They're going to take my brother away from me soon."

Italy came to sit at Germany's feet and began slowly unlacing his shoes. "I know you love your brother."

"What are you doing?"

"Learning to tie my shoes," Italy blabbered, "It helps me if I tie yours." But he didn't finish tying them. He just left them, the laces laying there sadly, and began running his hands up Germany's legs.

"Stop," Germany protested tiredly, standing up and slipping his boots off, going into the kitchen and returning with a wet rag to Italy who was sitting near the shoes and giggling. "Let me clean you up."

"I thought you liked dirty," Italy whined, retreating, "All of your movies are dirty. That's what France calls them."

"That's a different kind of dirty. You're a mess. Just let me clean something up." Germany stood still for a moment, cursing the slip. Something. Not just Italy, but something. He wasn't even really speaking to his small, nonsensical lover anymore. "Just let me clean something up. Make it better."

Let them not take Prussia. Let them stop beating him when they felt like it. Let them understand his terror and desperation. Let them stop occupying him and frightening his people. Let his people have somewhere to live, something to eat. Let him clean something up and make it better.

"Ve… I'm okay." Italy wrapped his arms around Germany's waist and looked up at him adoringly. "I killed my boss today."

"What?" Germany felt sick to his stomach and he fell back against the couch again, taking Italy with him. The wet rag dropped to his side and landed on the floor with a dull smack. This, Germany imagined briefly, was also the sound of someone's heart being ripped out and kicked.

"I shot him in the chest. I didn't like him."

"Why?"

"He was mean!" Italy pouted, crawling into Germany's lap and undoing Germany's belt, sliding down between Germany's legs, looking up at him with a grin. "And I want you to be my boss."

"Do you mean that," Germany's head hurt as he looked at Italy's dark hazel eyes. "Realistically or sexually?"

"Why not both? My boss used me, so why shouldn't you?"

"I can't even rule myself."

"But I'm easy to control!"

"You're impossible," Germany muttered, "You run away from fights and you're only good at cooking."

"I can be a good cook for you. You can dress me up in maid outfits, ve!" Italy's eyes lit up and he grinned, slipping his hand in Germany's pants. "I used to be a maid. A good maid! I need someone… another Nation… I need another Nation to control me."

"I know you do," Germany muttered, his whole body tense as Italy touched him. It wasn't a good tense. It was a sick, heavy tense, laden with sharp memories and smelling like the blood in Italy's hair. "But it can't be me."

"Why not?"

"My boss committed suicide. They're taking my brother away from me. I'm broke. I'm sick. I'm terrified. I'm not in any state to rule you."

Italy stopped for a moment, his eyes filling up with tears as he rested his head on Germany's knee. "I know. But I want you anyway."

Germany grabbed Italy's shirt collar and pulled him up into his lap, kissing his lips gently. "I know."

"Doitsu?" Italy whined, imitating the way things had been during the war when he had taken words from Japan, curling up against the nook of Germany's shoulder and pulled his hand out of Germany's pants, clenching the fabric of the faded and blood stained uniform. "When will we be normal again?"

Germany shook his head. "Never."

"Can we still have sex?"

"Why not?"

When Germany woke up the next morning, nothing much had changed. His brother was still taken away, his economy was still in ruins, and his boss was still dead. But there, at the foot of his bed, were his shoes. The laces were tied, and Italy was beaming, though is eyes were tired. "Germany," Italy said quietly, smiling, "I tied your shoes."

"You did." Germany sat up and motioned for Italy to come back to him. He did.

Italy beamed. "We'll get better."

"We will?"

"Of course we will."

Germany kissed Italy's neck gently and looked out the window at the morning sun coming up over the charred trees and ruined buildings. He might never see his brother again. Everyone was certain to hate him for what he'd done in that war, and he would probably never be truly sure of himself for the rest of his life. But his shoes were neatly tied, and he had a man who loved him in his bed.


End file.
